Get Better
by NellaRose
Summary: Sergeant Gary "Roach" Sanderson is a member of the elite Taskforce 141. After a stern reprimand from his commanding officer, he finds himself in a tumultuous battle with his own doubts. **Rated M for language!**


**Legal Stuff:** The _Call of Duty: Modern Warfare_ game series is certainly not mine! It's the property of _Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games_!

**Rated M for a bit of language.**

I wanted to take a moment to thank **netprincess** for being the most amazingly patient beta I could ever ask for. Also for keeping me on track, giving me insights and ideas, and really just being incredibly helpful. _Thank you.~_

I appreciate all constructive feedback! It's what makes me a better writer, after all. Any suggestions, tips, or ideas on what I can improve upon, or something else you'd like to see: _ Let me know!_

* * *

The day was unusually quiet around the S.A.S headquarters. The barracks, normally bustling heavily with activity, stood silent and still. For some, it would have seemed uncomfortable; for the handful of men that remained on the base, it was a bit of a welcome change in pace.

Sergeant Gary "Roach" Sanderson sat on his bed, his face buried deep in a celebrity news magazine. Truth be told, all he really wanted was to look at the photos, not much caring for the "news" featured alongside them. It wasn't like there was much choice in terms of literature on base, after all, so he was stuck with it.

He shifted his feet slightly, as he turned the page, resigning to not read the dreadfully dull articles. Before he even knew it, he began to fall into the text on the glossy sheets. _'Brad and Angelina adopting more kids? How domestic,_' he mocked, turning to the next page. "Kate Beckinsale! Now that's more like it. What on earth is she wearing?" he stated out loud.

"You aren't actually reading that are you, Sanderson?"

Archer, the team sniper, was staring at him from across the room, his eyebrow raised inquisitively. Unmoving, Roach snickered. "As a matter of fact, I am."

"Then I should probably inform you that is last month's edition. I bet Toad's got this month's, if you'd like," Archer replied, his face staid.

Roach looked up from behind the magazine, staring at Archer in mild disbelief.

"I'm only joking! You need to get out more, kid. Anyway, I hate to ruin your little party, but I've got a special delivery for you." He handed Roach a small yellow paper, folded perfectly in half. "From the captain," he added, as Roach lowered his magazine and took the small paper.

"The captain? Oh, good," Gary said sarcastically, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Yep, the big man, _himself_." Roach laced up his boots as Archer began walking toward the door. "I better get on. See you around, Sanderson. Have fun with the captain," he stated over his shoulder. Roach could only chuckle in reply_. 'Oh, joy of joys',_ he thought.

Unfolding the paper in order to take peak inside, Roach's eyes softened into neutrality. A hand-written note in black ink greeted him: '_Come to my office. Immediately."_ Captain MacTavish's hastily scribbled, but highly recognizable signature, rested neatly at the bottom of the yellow paper. Folding the note closed, he stuffed it in his pocket as he stood.

Exiting the bunk and into the still afternoon air, Roach walked across the base toward MacTavish's office. While the sergeant regarded the man as a friend, he knew he was still his field commander. The captain was a hard, intense, and highly professional man, to the point he often came across as the proverbial ice berg. Roach knew MacTavish could tell a good story and laugh over a pint like the rest of the men; The captain just chose to do it behind closed doors. Though, he had to admit, said doors were closed a bit too tightly during the recent months.

He thought of the possibility it was the burden of field command that had considerably soured the captain's mood as of late, but that was where MacTavish shined. _'Could be something personal,' _Roach pondered. _'Bollocks. The man could still use a drink or two.'_

He never took anything the commander said in the line of duty personally. Roach knew better than to feel that way; he was part of an elite special forces unit, and didn't have room in his mind for that sort of juvenile thinking. It had no place in the field, and mental diversions like that could get you killed.

After a good five minute walk, Roach finally reached the officer's quarter. The sergeant ran a hand over his hair as he half-heartedly approached the captain's door. He knocked, and a stern voice greeted him from inside.

"_Enter_."

Roach opened the door without hesitation, not wanting to reveal his growing nervousness. "Sir," he said in a clear voice. He made his best attempt at standing up straight, his hands relaxed at his sides.

Captain MacTavish was sitting behind his desk, focused on a folder of papers in front of him. He didn't acknowledge the sergeant right away. _'Wonder if he wants me to sweat a little,'_ Roach thought, waiting quietly for the captain to finish his paperwork_. 'Typical officer behavior." _

The room was of minimal décor. The walls were plain, save for a few maps and a small Union Jack under the thin window; the desk itself was neat, with no useless objects to clutter its functionality_. 'No mementos whatsoever. How very surgical of you, MacTavish,' _Roach thought, trying to keep his face settled.

After a few minutes of Gary making his best _"invisible man" _impression, MacTavish finally acknowledged his presence. "Sanderson." He stated the man's name stiffly, looking up at the sergeant as he closed the folder with a soft slapping sound. Gary suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as the commander stood, picking up a paper from the pile that rested in his inbox. He knew what was coming, and he braced himself for the upcoming sermon.

"The medic tells me you haven't been to have that shoulder looked at." MacTavish looked up from the paper, locking eyes with Roach. The sergeant swallowed, not daring to move his eyes from the captain. The line was delivered more as an ultimatum if anything else. It made Gary cringe as the captain awaited a response.

"No sir, I have not," he managed, his tone level and clear. The captain's face did not change as he tossed the paper back to his desk.

"You need to see the medic. That's not me asking this time." MacTavish waited for a response from the sergeant, not dropping his gaze. Roach couldn't help but think about how the situation he found himself in was his fault. '_If only I had made that jump,' _he told himself desperately. He forced the thought immediately from his mind, lest he become distracted.

"Sir, I feel fine-" The sarge struggled to keep his face relaxed as he replied but the commander held his hand up, interrupting the man.

"Enough, Roach. You _will _go see the medic about that shoulder. That is an order."

Gary inhaled slowly, letting the breath out, nodding in understanding. MacTavish moved back behind his desk, his eyes still watching Roach. "You need to take care of yourself, Sergeant." If that was the closest thing to concern MacTavish could muster, no wonder he was single. "Just keep that in mind. Dismissed."

Roach nodded again and opened the door to exit. As he did, he heard MacTavish state his name. He grimaced, composing himself long enough to address his superior without looking like a snarky kid.

"Yes, sir?" he replied, his face calm.

"Let's have a chat later." MacTavish offered. "After chow, yeah?"

"Yes, sir. That'd be fine," Roach replied, trying to hide the fact he wasn't really looking forward to it. Not because he didn't respect the captain, but rather because he was unsure of what the talk would be about.

"Good," MacTavish said, his expression impassive. "I'll find you later." The captain sat back down, devoted to yet another folder on his desk. Roach watched him pensively for a moment, and then closed the door behind him. He walked steadily toward the medical center, his mind beginning to buzz with thoughts.

When he reached the medical center, he was told to wait until the medic was free; he sat in a chair near the door, his mind wandering endlessly. Leaning far forward in the seat, his elbows resting on his knees, he folded his hands and rested his chin on his knuckles. As an S.A.S. soldier, he had to keep his thoughts under wraps; he couldn't let them distract him, until he had a moment where he could let them loose. And right now definitely _wasn't _the time.

The sarge shifted restlessly in his seat, sitting back against the hard plastic chair. He bounced his knee up and down briskly, trying to focus his frustration elsewhere, though he had to make an effort to not let it show on his face; thoughts flew quickly through his mind, and each one faded just as he was able to pin it down. He sighed, wanting desperately for the day to just move on. These moments of idleness made him feel increasingly restless, and he wanted to avoid his own mind.

The captain had given him quite the bollocking. Not, however, on his performance as a soldier - in fact, he had given him mild praise. But, MacTavish had noticed Roach showing physical discomfort in the aftermath of their last mission - and in a rather friendly, concerned manner, the captain had gently insisted that he got it checked.

"_You nearly fell of a bloody mountain, Roach," _the commander had reminded him. _"That I did," _he had answered, jokingly; the look MacTavish gave him could have melted steel. The captain wasn't reminding him of how he saved Roach from near death, nor was he pushing his weight around as field commander. He was simply being concerned over his comrade, and Roach knew it.

Although Gary had reluctantly acknowledged the statements, he hadn't in fact gone to the medic. After all, he wasn't seriously injured; it only hurt when he moved it. He was sure it was just sore.

When the captain had found out, though, he really was in for it. The reminder a few minutes previous was still just as concerned for Roach's well being, but this time, it included an order. Either way, it gave the sergeant something to think on. Unfortunately, it was more of a constant crashing of thoughts, as the sea on a rocky shore; crashing and then disappearing amidst the waves

_"_Hey, buddy_." _

Roach snapped to attention, surprised at how much he had been drowning in thought; Chemo, the team medic, was standing in front of him, clipboard in hand.

"Erm, sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his hand over his hair. The medic stepped back a pace, his face patient and neutral.

"Not a problem," he retorted. "You looked like you were busy anyway," he added, pointing at his temple. Roach smiled, nodding in silence.

The sarge stood up from his cozy seat with little effort. His legs were rather sore, but not nearly as bad as his shoulder was. He could feel the muscles pulling at the bone like angry fingers. '_That will be a lovely, ripe bruise,"_ he imagined to himself.

"This way, sergeant," the medic said, his voice as cool as the room. Roach followed him to an exam table, his hands in his pockets.

"Alright, now go ahead and take off your jacket and shirt, and I'll take a look at that shoulder," Chemo said, snapping latex gloves over his hands. Obliging, Roach winced a bit as he pulled his t-shirt over his head.

"A bit tender, is it?" Chemo asked. Gary sat on the exam table, feeling himself fall back into his turbulent thoughts. He began to wish he had that calm patience the medic seemed to exude. His day was beginning to run unbelievably slowly, and this exam was only a reminder of just how much so.

"You seem pretty distracted today, Sanderson."Chemo's voice grabbed Roach back down from his daydreaming, forcing him to frown slightly.

"Yes, you could say that…_"Bloody hell..!_" Roach cursed through clenched teeth as the medic rotated his left shoulder. The bruise that had formed around his armpit was turning an intense shade of purple, showing up vividly on his rather pale visage. He exhaled as the irritating pain subsided into a dull ache.

"Looks like you wrenched this shoulder pretty badly," Chemo said, his brows furrowed in concentration.

"Yes. I took a bit of a dive off a mountain."The medic raised his head to look at Roach, his mouth cocked to one side.

"A bit of a dive, you say?"

Roach grinned. "Lucky me I caught myself. With this arm."

Chemo nodded in understanding, a slight smile forming on his face. He continued examining his entire arm, working his elbow up and down, and rotating his wrist.

"Looks like you'll be alright. Just please try to take it a little easy on it," the medic insisted, pulling the gloves off his hands and tossing them in a garbage bin. "You are pretty lucky. You could have pulled your arm right out of the socket." Roach's mouth formed a thin line. "You made a good call at least getting checked out. Just don't over exert yourself unnecessarily."

"I'll see what I can do, doc. Can't make any promises," Roach answered, pulling his t-shirt back on.

"I know, it's a lot to ask. And I mean that seriously," Chemo said. "This taskforce can have you on your toes."

As he pulled his jacket over his shoulders, Roach looked at Chemo and smiled. "Thank you much, Chemo."

The other man smiled back. "Just doing my job. Let me know if that shoulder gets worse. You can see yourself out." The medic then turned his attention to some papers on the counter, intent on his new task.

The Englishman stuffed his hands in his pockets, and strode quickly from the room, his shoulder aching with the extra movements.

As he exited the medical center, the warm sun hit his face, and he realized that perhaps he _really_ should take it easy today. The warming sensation on his skin made him feel rather lazy. '_But I need to get better,' _he thought to himself_. _Roach had been telling himself that since the beginning of his mission with the captain yesterday. He had been repeating it to himself while MacTavish tore into him about not taking care of it.

Gary walked back to his bunk, his stride not breaking pace as his mind settled on what he should do next. He needed to work out a plan to improve, and not just physically; that was the one thought that kept surfacing amid the storm of chaos that was swarming in his brain.

He entered the barracks, slowing his pace as he walked toward the end of the room. It was empty, and the sound of his boots on the floor echoed softly as he reached his bunk. Pulling up his pack on the bed, he rummaged through it before finding a fresh field journal. Only one page had been written in, and it had been weeks since he'd had time to even look at the thing.

"Heya, Roach." A familiar Cockney accent greeted him from the door. Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley walked toward him, his hair wet and matted messily across in forehead.

"Bleeding Christ, Ghost. You need a haircut," Roach answered.

Ghost laughed his smile white and broad. "Yeah, well. No one gets to see this ugly mop often, eh?" He rubbed a towel across his hair, and approached the bunk across from Roach. "Now let me tell you. That shower was _fantastic_," Ghost mused. "You wanna grab some chow, mate?"

Roach placed his pack back under the bed, smiling slightly. "Oh, thanks but no. I have a few things to take care of."

Ghost stuffed his BDUs into his boots, standing to look at Roach. He opened his mouth as if to say something cheeky, but opted to simply nod instead. "Alright. I'll leave you to it, then." He walked out of the bunk, his heavily booted footsteps disappearing into the distance.

Roach looked at the journal in his hands, letting out a deep breath as he walked toward the door.

At least one hour had passed as men came flowing slowly from the mess hall. Things were beginning to wind down around the already calm base as the end of the day approached.

Outside the bunker, Roach sat on the ground against the side of the building. He hastily scribbled down a fitness plan. _"More PT. Kettle bell. Pull up/chin ups. Upper body needs work."_ He reached to pull a pack of smokes from his jacket pocket, only to stop abruptly and stare and the already half-empty pack. Putting them back in his pocket, he continued to write. "_After this pack, __QUIT SMOKING__."_

He quickly became absorbed in his writing, jotting down more fitness goals. _"Leg press/tires/squats… Need to be able to jump."_ Leaning his head back against the building, he closed his eyes momentarily, trying to clear his mind of any thought.

The sound of boots hitting the dirt alerted him to the approach of Captain MacTavish. As the Scotsman rounded the side of the building, Roach closed his journal, stuffing it in his pocket.

"Roach," MacTavish said, nodding in greeting. His tone was more light-hearted than Roach was expecting. He moved to stand, but the captain shook his head.

Sitting next to him, MacTavish pulled a half smoked cigar from his breast pocket. "What I wanted to talk to you about is what I assume you are writing in that journal," he said, his face serious, though not quite authoritative. He lit the cigar, a small cloud of smoke rising around his form. "It's not just about being stronger physically. Goodness knows I could use a workout," he continued. Roach looked down at his boots, listening to the thick Scottish accent as the captain spoke.

A moment of silence fell between them, uncomfortable for a brief moment. The sergeant began to settle in the quiet, as the man next to him seeming to radiate calm.

Roach regarded the captain as he inhaled from the cigar, a sense of comfort falling on his face as he exhaled. "You need to be more confident, Roach," MacTavish said, turning his face toward the sergeant. "You're a brilliant damn soldier. I trust you at my back. You have good judgment and sharp wit. _Stop acting like a bloody FNG_." The emphasis on the last sentence made Roach truly understand what his captain was telling him.

As unwilling as he'd be to admit it, it was indeed true that most of the time, Roach did feel like the "fucking new guy."; as though he could never live up to the legend he saw in MacTavish, or be good enough in his eyes. The sergeant was recruited at the same time as Ghost, and saw his fellow taskforce as brothers. Even his superiors felt more like family than team mates.

"I understand what you are saying, sir," Roach said. He straightened his back and rested his arms on his knees. "I'm not some blubbering kid who is fresh from training." He paused, gathering his thoughts before he continued. He was never good at expressing these sorts of things in words, especially in regards to himself. "Sometimes, I just don't feel good enough. I work hard; I know what I'm doing. I often feel something is missing." He stifled a sigh, as though his train of thought would get caught in between his lips.

MacTavish looked at Gary as he spoke, listening to what the normally quiet sergeant had to say. "It's called _confidence_, Sanderson," he said, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Don't second guess yourself all the time. I _hand-picked_ you out of a pile of recruits… For a _reason_." Roach looked down at his boots again, nodding as the captain nudged him with an elbow.

MacTavish stood, putting his left hand in his pocket. "You know what Roach? You may not understand it yet, but the fact you can acknowledge it at all shows you are stronger than you realize."

At that statement, Roach looked up at the captain, who was giving him a reassured smile. "Thanks, captain." Gary smiled back, feeling this wild thoughts begin to settle in his mind.

"You remind me of myself, when I was a sergeant," MacTavish said. "All balls, loyalty, and no confidence. Take it from me. Once you start to realize just how strong you already are, that's when you will really improve."

Roach relished the words of advice from the captain. He wasn't much younger than him, but there was experience coming through in his speech. Experience wrapped in bullets, blood, and loss.

MacTavish looked up at the sky, another moment of quiet overcoming them. No more words were needed between the two men; their mutual respect and regard was enough. Roach began to suspect that the captain wanted to say more, but cut himself short. _'He wouldn't still be standing there otherwise,'_ he thought. He was the type of man that said what needed saying, and left it at that.

"Captain, may I ask you something more personal?" he queried. He pushed himself to his feet, his shoulder beginning to ache from the movement.

MacTavish turned to look at the sergeant, the cigar dangling from his lips. "Not too personal, I hope," he responded, taking the cigar between his fingers. "But feel free to speak your mind."

"Don't worry, sir. I don't want to get to know you _that_ well," Roach chuckled, leaning back against the wall as the conversation grew more casual. "Though I know some of the guys would like to know-"

"And I'd love to give them some knitting needles, since they love to chatter like a bunch of old ladies," MacTavish retorted, cutting Gary short. "That trash you've been reading must be getting to you, Sanderson."

"Well, I don't – Wait, how did you know that?"

"You wouldn't believe the strange _gossip_ you hear from the base staff, mate."

"Right. Point taken, captain." Gary grinned, granting him a slight smile in return from MacTavish.

"Well, go on then," the captain said, gesturing at Roach. "I do have other things to do, yet."

A sly smirk had begun to form on MacTavish's face as he inhaled from the cigar. Nodding toward the leg hostler the captain wore, he asked, "Why do you carry that pistol everywhere you go?" MacTavish looked at the man in silence for a moment, his expression melting back into its usual neutrality. He pulled the pistol from its holster. It was covered in dings, scrapes, and nicks, but the captain regarded it with a kind of admiration.

"It belonged to someone I served with a few years back," he said, still looking at the M1911 pistol. He placed it back in the holster, inhaling from the cigar.

"Someone I respected quite a bit. Gave me a damn hard time, but I turned out better for it," he said, his voice less hardened.

Roach knew better than to ask what happened. It was obvious that whoever this man was, he wasn't around anymore. It was even more obvious that the gun meant a lot to him. For a man who seemingly didn't keep a lot of personal affects around his office, the fact he carried this pistol spoke volumes.

"Is that the reason you're so guarded?" Roach asked.

MacTavish glowered at Roach, visibly annoyed at the personal question. "Watch it, Sanderson," he said his voice low and serious. "I can't run about making daisy chains and bloody holding hands," he continued. He inhaled from the now very small piece of cigar, shaking his head as he spoke.

"Just because I seem distant, doesn't mean I don't care about my men."

'_Bloody hell, now I've offended him,' _Roach thought. He also knew that there was more to the man behind that pistol. It was something that MacTavish was unwilling to discuss, and he shouldn't have tried to push so hard.

"I know you care, sir," Roach said, his voice rather cheerful. "You should join us for a few pints some evening. Loosen up a bit, eh?" MacTavish stared at Roach, his face unsmiling. "I have better things to do than babysit you lot," he said, his voice carrying a hint of sarcasm.

Roach stared back at him, trying to think of a witty riposte. MacTavish began to truly smile, his eyes squinting as he sniggered behind his lips.

"Ghost and Toad _would_ need a babysitter, that's for bloody sure," Roach said through a laugh.

"And you think I'm the one to do it, then," MacTavish said, pointing a finger at himself.

"Oh, sir, would never think dream of putting such a heavy burden upon you." Roach folded his arms, a pert smile spread across his lips.

"Good." MacTavish dropped the cigar on the ground, putting it out with his boot.

"Why don't you come 'round later? Play a game of cards with us?" Gary offered. The captain gave Roach a look that reminded him he was over-stepping his bounds. Raising his hands up in a mock defeat, Roach backed up a step. "Just offering, sir."

MacTavish leaned his shoulder against the side of the building, looking down at the ground. "It's not that I don't appreciate the offer, Roach." The sergeant looked up to see MacTavish looking at him, his eyes relaxing as he spoke. "I know it's important."

Roach was hesitant to respond, feeling the captain had a lot more on his mind. He eased up a bit, letting MacTavish lead the conversation. "I'm loyal to my men, and I know they are to me. But I am their commander. There needs to be a bit of distance there." MacTavish's tone was quiet, and he shifted his feet as he turned to look toward the mess hall.

"Ultimately, mate, I'm responsible if anything goes to _shite_ in the field." Roach nodded silently as the captain spoke. "I need to stay calm and focus on the job. The better I do that, the more guys come home safe."

Roach had been in the armed forces long enough to know how it all worked. Hearing it from MacTavish, though, was a whole different perspective. He seemed to know what Roach needed to hear.

"I understand, captain," Roach acknowledged, his voice steady. He smiled slightly, hoping his sincerity would show. "But, sir, does that mean that you should spend every day locked in your office? The guys think you're playing at the superiority game. Captain, don't you think-"

"Don't presume to tell me what I think, Sanderson. I know all that. Things need to stay the way there are, regardless of whether we like it or not." The captain's voice didn't rise in volume, but his intonation was stark. He barely moved when he spoke, yet Roach could feel the heaviness of the captain's irritation.

"I'm sorry sir, I apologize. I didn't mean to offend," Roach offered, his shoulders slightly slumping. MacTavish pushed a deep breath from his lungs as he looked at Roach. He opened his mouth to say something further, but stopped himself with a slight groan.

"It's alright, Gary. I know you didn't. I'm sorry I snapped at you."

Roach turned his eyes up once more, looking at MacTavish hesitantly. A mild feeling of surprise crept up on Roach. It was a rare occurrence for a superior to apologize to his subordinate, leaving him unsure of how to respond.

"No worries, sir," the sergeant mumbled, half smiling as he adjusted his jacket around his torso.

MacTavish said nothing, simply nodding as he stood up off the wall. Both men, it seemed, had said everything that needed saying. They knew the conversation was over, hoping the other man would take something away from it.

After a moment of silence, he slapped the sergeant on the _good_ shoulder. "Maybe I'll take you up on that offer of a drink." Roach looked up, chuckling as he said, "Brilliant. I'll buy!" He felt every bit the excited school boy.

MacTavish turned to walk back to his office. "See you bright and early tomorrow, sergeant." With that, Captain MacTavish walked away, his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Roach stood for a moment longer, letting the conversation sink in. He smiled in his own personal victory of getting the captain to crack his tough veneer, even for a moment. _'Man's as hard as a walnut,'_ he laughed to himself. _'At least he's got a sense of bloody humor.' _

The advice from the captain began to surface again, and in the wake of that thought, Roach withdrew his journal from his pocket. He took the pen to the page in an attempt to finish what he had started before MacTavish decided to show up. Glancing over his previous scribbles, he mulled over his new daily routine. The pen scratched hastily across the page, his thoughts having a hard time keeping up.

"_Confidence, Roach,"_ he wrote, smiling to himself. He moved the pen around the words, letting the ink soak into the cheap paper. It spread into feather-like tendrils, emphasizing the letters in a stark contrast to the white paper. It wasn't a work of art, but perhaps he'd hang it on the wall over his bed; right under that lovely poster of the lady he snagged from Ozone.

He began to write on the next page, setting goals for himself, until he became aware of someone approaching him. Looking up, he spotted a good-humored Riley walking towards him. '_Bollocks, why is everyone lurking around me every time I decide to write on that journal?' _ he chuckled to himself. He pulled the pack of smokes from his pocket, knowing exactly what the lieutenant would ask.

"Gotta smoke?" Ghost asked, his eyebrows raised inquisitively.

Smiling, Roach handed the lieutenant the remainder of his pack. "Keep it, mate." Ghost nodded, clapping Roach on the back.

"Ah, Sanderson, still opting to join the league of great writers?" he taunted, spotting the journal in Roach's hand. "Or are you just rehearsing pick up lines again, mate?" he snickered, lighting a cigarette.

"Nah, leave that bit to Archer or Toad. I'm more like jotting down whatever is on my mind. Helps clear my head a bit." Roach stuffed the journal in his pocket, shaking his head at Ghost's teasing.

"I say you've had enough of it for today. Why don't you come on and have a go at cards with me, eh?" he asked, a mischievous smirk on his face.

"Only if you put that mask back on," Roach teased. "That painted skull is far better than your best poker face." Ghost laughed as the men walked in step toward the barracks. They walked for a bit in silence until Ghost suddenly decided to speak.

"Listen, mate. A bit of advice: There are _no_ actual limits, Roach. You will constantly be trying to better yourself." The sergeant stared at Ghost, wondering just how he knew what had been bugging Roach.

"You'd also do well to keep in mind that is hardly the answer to all your problems. There will be times you will be in fact helpless to save someone, regardless of how good you are." The man grew quiet, looking broodingly at the ground, as if it the very meaning of life was buried in the dirt beneath them. Roach didn't say anything. He knew Ghost was right, but still had himself questioning his abilities.

"And what does that mean, Simon? I don't mean to pry, but..." Roach asked plainly.

Ghost kept his eyes in front of him as he walked. He didn't answer, so Roach shifted his line of questioning from being so personal.

"Alright, so, how can I actually improve, then?"

The lieutenant was rather too quick to reply. "What really matters is having a goal, and attaining it, mate. You aren't some bloody superhuman, Roach," he answered, his voice full of honesty. "You're only a man. That means if you make your goals too high, all you're actually doing is setting up yourself for failure. You'll be getting nowhere."

Roach nodded. "I think I get the idea," he answered, keeping in step with the lieutenant as they made their way across the base.

"I'm sure you do. That mind of yours was bound to come to life at some point," Ghost quipped, jokingly reaching up to rub the sergeant's head.

"Hah bloody hah. Shove off, mate!" Roach said, easily dodging the attempt at a hair ruffling.

"Always here to help," Ghost said, a clever, toothy grin on his face. He looked up at Roach, inhaling deeply from the cigarette. "By the way, what was the captain bollocking you over?" he asked suddenly. Ghost stared at Roach as they walked, waiting for him to answer. Roach smiled in spite of himself.

"Just letting me know how amazing I am," he said.

"Snarky fucker," Ghost replied, giving the sergeant a bit of a shove. Roach was glad to see the usually dark and gloomy man being jovial.

Ghost looked out of the corner of his eye at Roach. "Ridiculous choice of haircut aside, John is really is a good man," Ghost finally said, his expression sturdy and knowing. He brought the cigarette up to his lips, letting it rest there while he talked. "I know him well enough to know that whatever he has to say to you, it won't be on a moment's whim. And he rarely bothers with someone unless he actually has something useful to say; something beneficial." Roach turned his head to look at Ghost, their pace still unhurried.

"He'll come 'round when things aren't so stressful for him, yeah?" Ghost turned to look at Roach, a small smile pulling the corner of his mouth. Roach shook his head slowly, "I prodded him a bit. Personal stuff."

Ghost chortled, looking at Roach with a curious expression. "Did he answer?" he asked, his eyebrows raised. Cocking his head to the side, Roach replied, "He did. Well, sort of." The sergeant's face grew more serious as he continued. "I shouldn't have pushed him for it."

Stopping in his tracks, Ghost dropped the butt of the smoke on the ground, grinding it out with his boot. After walking ahead a few paces, Roach turned around to face the lieutenant. Ghost's head was ducked down, still looking at Roach. "You know, Roach, regardless of what they might have you believe, it's not actually a _bad thing._ Getting to know him a bit shows your loyalty to him, mate."

Ghost shifted his feet, watching Roach for a reaction. He rolled his head back when he didn't get a reply. "Ah, hell Roach. It shows you give as much a damn about him as he does for you. That's hardly deplorable."

The confirmation from Ghost seemed to ease Roach's mind. He was beginning to wonder if he had really stepped where he didn't belong. He walked closer to stand in front of the other man.

"Well, I invited him out to have a few pints," he cracked as a triumphant look washed over his face. Ghost's eyes widened as he rested a hand on Roach's arm. "And? Did he say yes?"

Roach's smile almost seemed smug and he answered, "He said he might take me up on the offer." Ghost muffled a chuckle behind his lips. "It's about time. He sure as hell could use a few drinks."

"That's what I thought earlier," Roach revealed, both men enjoying a moment of peaceful hilarity.

Reaching the barracks, Ghost whipped his jacket off as he opened the door. Roach stayed outside for a moment; he hadn't realized just how much time he had spent worrying and letting his lack of confidence dictate his actions. The sky was painted in a wash of orange and blue as the sun began to set. He laughed slightly to himself. He certainly felt quite the fool. "Now I just need to be able to bloody jump," he said out loud.

Ghost's voice brought him back down to reality as he called after him. Smiling to himself as he turned to walk in the barracks, Roach could say at last that his thoughts were finally at rest.


End file.
